


we're slipping off the course that we prepared

by blackkat



Series: Tumblr Drabbles [100]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, First Meetings, Implied/Referenced Prostitution, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 03:55:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15833256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: Obito recognizes the divine messenger immediately.





	we're slipping off the course that we prepared

 Obito recognizes the divine messenger immediately.

One look at the woman in the doorway and he groans into his shitty diner coffee. She looks like a drinker after a hard night in the bar, flipping a poker chip across her fingers as she scans the room, and Obito isn't stupid enough to hope that she’s here for someone else. He sinks down on his stool, trying to make himself unnoticeable, and wonders how easy it would be to convince the cute waiter to buy a blowjob in the back alley, just for an excuse to get out before the messenger can catch him.

Even with the way the waiter has been eyeing Obito since he sat down, the messenger is too fast. She spots Obito immediately, and stalks across the floor like she’s on a mission, which she undoubtedly is. Obito stops trying to catch the waiter’s eye and makes a sound of disgust instead, pushing to his feet as she approaches.

A hand, ridiculously strong and impossible to budge, lands on his shoulder and shoves him back into his seat. “Don’t even think about making me run after you,” the blonde warns, and throws herself down next to him. “I had to leave a winning hand for this, I hope you know.”

“Whatever it is, I don’t want any part of it,” Obito retorts, but he picks up his coffee again. If he had to spend three dollars on it, he’s going to _enjoy_ it, even if it tastes like garbage disposal scrapings with some sugar added.

The blonde laughs, and it manages to be amused and bitter at the same time. “It’s cute that you think you have a choice,” she says, and tucks the poker chip away. Her hand reemerges from her coat pocket with a coin, old gold stamped with a seal Obito hasn’t seen in centuries. “You're being called to oversee a quest.”

“Who even _goes_ on quests anymore?” Obito demands, but he reaches out almost without thinking about it, gingerly takes the coin from her fingertips. A spark like lightning crackles across the surface, crawling over his knuckles, and he winces. Powerful, then. That’s mildly alarming.

“He might be Chosen,” the messenger says, and sighs. “There's going to be a lot of competition for this one, Lord—”

“It’s just Obito,” he cuts in, because just six hours ago he let a stranger bend him over a motel bed and fuck him. The old titles don’t fit anymore. They haven’t for a long time.

Amber eyes regard him for a long moment, uncomfortably knowing, before the woman nods. “Tsunade,” she says, and then tells the waiter, “A cup of coffee, and put his on my bill.” When Obito gives her a narrow look, she snorts. “My patron’s footing the cost. Drink up.”

Obito is almost tempted to order a burger, in light of that, but things of that sort always seem to come back around to bite someone in the ass later. Instead, he just pushes his cup forward for a refill, and once the waiter has moved away asks, “If it’s that big, one of the other assholes—”

But Tsunade is already shaking her head. “They’re caught up in their powerplays,” she says, mouth twisting, and takes a swig of her coffee, black and still scorching hot, without even flinching. “You’ve been tapped, Obito. All you have to do is check in on the kid in a few places, make it to the old forest before he can get there and wait for him to show up.”

If this poor bastard is a Chosen, or even a Potential, he’s going to hit every minor god with a grudge on his way to the Petrified Forest. Maybe a few major ones, too, if someone’s feeling particularly salty about their last fall from favor. Still, Obito doesn’t have a car, and there's only so far he can get by hitchhiking, or on the bus. He grimaces, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the coin, and glances up at Tsunade again.

“If one of the heavy hitters comes gunning for me, I'm going to be a smear on the pavement,” he warns. “I'm not what I used to be.”

“That’s why we got you some help.” Tsunade smiles at him, wry and tired but with a current of something bright underneath it, and rises to her feet. “Get to The Dalles, he’ll find you.”

That’s at least three hours from Olympia, and Obito frowns, debating. He has two hundred dollars in his pocket, a little more tucked away, but that’s not a lot in the scheme of things. Not if they're going to be stopping frequently to make sure the Potential doesn’t end up dead in a way the other gods will object to. _Especially_ not if there’s going to be another god traveling with him. Still, if he’s been called, there’s no refusing. The pantheon doesn’t take kindly to gods refusing to serve.

“What’s this Chosen’s name?” Obito asks, on a whim. He’ll know the kid when he sees him, assuming he really is a Potential, but _knowing_ and getting a name are two separate things entirely.

Tsunade pauses in the middle of straightening her coat, like the question’s surprised her. Looks at him, for a long moment, and then says softly, “Nagato. His name’s Nagato. He’s a college student from Seattle, and two days ago Ashura visited him in his dreams and gave him his quest.”

Obito winces. Ashura’s one of the nicer ones, as the primordial gods go, but he can be overwhelming. And to go from being a student to Balance of the World in two days? Nagato is probably a mess. Not that a lot of gods care about that kind of thing.

“Ashura stepped in?” he asks. “That’s…”

“Going to turn this into an absolute shitshow,” Tsunade finishes for him. She tips two fingers against her forehead with a wry smile, and says, “You’ll forgive me if I don’t drop a few bets on your odds of success.”

Obito flips her off, and she laughs, inclining her head to him politely and then turning on her heel. The door falls shut behind her, and Obito groans, scrubs a hand over his face, and steals her half-finished coffee.

 

 

Obito's bus pulls into the station in The Dalles at just after two in the morning, and he’s the only one who gets off. It’s a small building, red and white fronting, and the place is empty, even the ticket booth deserted.

Obito takes one step into it and feels the power curl beneath his skin.

He breathes in, breathes out. A liminal space, caught between moments, deserted when it should be busy, and this is his realm. Midnight streets around him are usually good enough, but this is contained, a spinning knot of power in the center of a sleeping world, and he feels like he’s come home.

Standing here, it’s easy enough to feel the currents of the world moving. Obito is a thing of changes and places between, liminal spaces and transitions, and in a place where is power is strongest he can tell with the instinctive ease of breathing that the whole world has started to shift. The pantheon is never stable, never set; they’re concepts, given life by fear and wonder, and some concepts rise above others as humanity forges onward. This is one of those tipping points, the first step into the cycle as it turns, and Obito closes his eyes, drinking it in.

The sound of a boot on stone makes him turn, watching through the open doors of the station as a man approaches. He looks tired but set, bomber jacket worn and patched, jeans faded with use. His dark hair is pulled up in a tail, and there's a scar across the bridge of his nose, several shades darker than his brown skin. As the bus pulls away, he glances at it, then back at Obito, and he smiles.

It’s a warm expression, makes something curl through Obito's chest that he hasn’t felt in a long time, and he thinks, _Oh_.

“No trouble on the trip in?” the man asks, once he’s close enough, and it reverberates through the empty air, just a touch _more_ than human.

“Not yet,” Obito answers dryly, and he meant what he said to Tsunade about any one of the current Higher Powers being able to turn him into a smear on the concrete, but—not here. Not right now, in a time and place that’s wholly Obito's. “We have a bit of breathing room right now.”

“We do?” The man looks startled, glances around them and frowns, but he doesn’t ask. Instead, he shakes his head, smile returning, and offers Obito his hand. “I'm Iruka.”

“Obito,” he returns, and takes Iruka’s hand. His grip is firm, steady, not a power play, and Obito lets out a short breath of relief. Some of the other minor gods can be just as much of a pain to deal with as the major ones, turning everything into a fight, and he was hoping not to get stuck with an asshole like that.

“My truck is parked a block over,” Iruka says. “I wasn’t sure when you’d be here. If we’re ready—”

“Not yet,” Obito interrupts, turning away, because _something_ slides across his nerves, that same awareness that lets him know things are changing. This, too, is a change, but a far more immediate one.

Iruka takes a step after him as he turns, then pauses. “Obito?” he asks, faintly cautious. “If it’s—I'm not a warrior.”

There's a wealth of frustration in that statement, old and worn down. Obito breathes in the taste of his power, sun-bright and strong, and snorts.

“You're a fighter, though,” he says, because the knowledge is right at the forefront, ready to touch. “Hopefully that will be enough.”

There's another bus coming, pulling up to the street with a groaning creak of brakes and tired metal, and Obito takes another step and then stops at the edge of the station’s open doors, watching. A single figure slips down the steep stairs, nodding to the driver, and Obito's breath curls through his chest like a twist of fire.

 _Potential_ , he thinks, and it’s a heady, captivating thing. Humans always are, and Potentials are the entirety of human existence distilled into one focus point.

This one is small, thin, a redheaded boy in an oversized sweatshirt, hood pulled up to cover his face. A deep scratch on his cheek has stopped bleeding, but only recently, and he clutches a battered backpack where it crosses his chest.

“He’s so young,” Iruka says, barely a murmur, and it sounds dismayed.

Caught in transition, Obito thinks. Boy to man, student to hero, and sometimes changes hurt those suffering them more than they help. He pulls the golden coin from his pocket, tracing his thumb across the seal, and steps forward.

Immediately, deep violet eyes snap to him, full of fear. Obito knows he doesn’t cut a very reassuring figure, a scarred man in a leather jacket and black jeans, the urge to smile stripped away over the centuries, but he tips his head, lets Nagato look him over as he approaches, and holds up the coin.

“Nagato,” he says.

Nagato swallows, but he doesn’t take a step back, and behind Obito Iruka’s presence shivers, strengthens. “You're one of them,” Nagato says quietly, like it’s a hard thing to believe. “Like—like Ashura.”

“You can call me Obito,” Obito says. “Your journey already started. This is just a place between the beginning and the end of it.”

Nagato closes his eyes, expression twisting. “I don’t even know what I'm supposed to be _looking_ for,” he protests.

Obito snorts. “Haven’t you ever heard _it’s the journey, not the destination_?” he asks, and when Nagato gives him a dark look he shrugs and offers up the coin, pressing it into Nagato's lax fingers. There's a current of _knowing_ in him, right now, and it makes the words come easily, like they're falling off the tip of his tongue. “There are six doors, and seven keys, six paths up to heaven. There's a forest of trees that never grow or die, lost in the desert. When the seasons change, everything opens. You’ll have one day.”

“One day for _what_?” Nagato demands, voice breaking, and his hand is white-knuckled around the coin. “I don’t—I _can't_ —”

“Hey!” a loud voice says, and stranger jogs towards them, emerging from the surrounding streets. Tall, with bright orange hair, and he’s scowling at Obito. “Leave him alone, dude, can't you see you're being an ass?”

It makes Obito want to snicker, but he steps back instead, steps around Nagato's grab and turns away. “You might want to work fast,” he says over his shoulder. “Midwinter’s in a week.”

In this place, at this time, it only takes a thought to vanish from sight, to make a step carry him across the street and down to a shadowy corner. Iruka is already heading towards him, steps quick, and he only glances over his shoulder once before he picks up a jog and reaches Obito's side.

“You’re such a _god_ ,” he complains, then seems to realize what he said and flushes.

Obito smirks at him, but his eyes slide past Iruka, to where the orange-haired boy has a hand on Nagato's shoulder and is speaking to him. _Change_ , he thinks, and the sense of it is fading now that he’s beyond the pocket of liminal space, but it’s still enough to know that the second boy’s presence is a catalyst.

“Come on,” he says. “They're not going to make it further than Hot Lake today. We should have plenty of time to beat them there.”

Iruka hesitates, glancing back at Nagato, and his expression twists. “I hate this,” he says quietly. “He’s just a _child_.”

“No one stays a child forever,” Obito says, and rubs a thumb across the scarred side of his face, mouth curving in a wry smile. “At least he’s going to have help on the way.”

Iruka looks at him for a long moment, then smiles. “So will you,” he says, and heads for the small, battered truck parked around the corner. “Or so will both of us, I guess. You said a forest that never grows or dies—the Petrified Forest, right? Is that where we’re headed?”

“Apparently.” Obito waits for him to unlock the passenger door, then tosses his knapsack on the floorboard and pulls himself in. “Ashura has plans, that’s for certain. And if he’s working towards an end…”

“Indra will be trying to stop him,” Iruka finishes. “The two of us against that whole side of the pantheon? Someone is laughing at us. I bet the Higher Powers don’t get this much trouble when they oversee a quest.”

Obito leans back in his seat and closes his eyes, smiling wryly. “Some guys get the world, and some guys get an ex-hooker and a trip to Arizona,” he says.

Iruka laughs, and it curls in Obito's chest. Even on the edges of liminal space, in the streets where the sense of it is faded, Obito can tell that his power is change, too. A stronger type that Obito's, chaotic and careless. Something deliberate, carefully forged, and the taste of it is sweet on Obito's tongue.

“I think we can make do,” Iruka says, and starts the truck. The engine turns over with a cranky rattle, and Obito props one knee against the dashboard and sinks into the seat, getting comfortable.

“Yeah,” he says, and is surprised to find he means it. “I think we can, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> It isn't super clear in the fic, since I didn't have room to elaborate, but Obito is the god of transitions and liminal spaces, and Iruka is the god of struggles and triumphs.


End file.
